


Day Two: Black Tie

by rizahawkaye



Series: Royai Week 2017 [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Funny, Love, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizahawkaye/pseuds/rizahawkaye
Summary: Roy didn’t try to fight his smug smile as it made a home on his face. “From ‘roommate’ to ‘Mr. Mustang’ to ‘Major’ to ‘Colonel’ to ‘General’ to ‘Führer,'” he trails off and beams at the way Riza’s lips curl into a small smile against her will. He reaches across the table and places a hand over her paper to pull her attention toward him. When she looks up at him, his heart leaps. “I’m ready for this new title, all others be damned."





	Day Two: Black Tie

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MY FIRST SMUT ATTEMPT HAHAHA !!!

Roy stalls as Riza says to him, "Let's not have a wedding." He's bent over his small dining table sipping at a cup of coffee while his eyes flit over some government document he was surely not supposed to take home with him. She’s cross-legged in front of him, her chest falling and rising in a steady rhythm that pumps warmth into him. The cool early-morning sunlight is trickling through the high windows of his palace and falling neatly over his companion’s form, basking her in light and illuminating her gentle features. "Let's just get those papers signed," she deadpans, not even handing him a glance from her place across from him.

He raises his face to her, shrugs a brow, and says, "It's pretty important for the Führer to have a wedding. Y'know, for appearances. We've always been two to care about appearances, haven't we?" He says, half-joking, though there is weight to his words. They’ve spent decades fretting over appearances, and pushing their desires aside for them. It’s for this reason that Roy isn’t surprised when Riza doesn't meet his eyes with her own. He sighs and tries to amend himself with, "Why the sudden aversion to weddings?"

"Not weddings in general," she replies, her voice dry. "Military weddings.”

“So you don’t want a military wedding,” he says. “But you’re marrying the Führer.”

“I’m marrying Roy Mustang,” she corrects him as she finally sets her amber eyes on his face. He grins at her as the words leave her lips but she doesn’t smile back at him. “The military has been a part of everything we’ve done since Ishbal,” she continues. “I’d like this to be the one thing in our life together that isn’t marred by blue jackets, and boots.”

Roy sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. He forces a breath out slowly, so she can hear it, and she pulls her eyes off him to re-focus on a newspaper splayed out below her. He steals a moment to graze his eyes over her and tries to ignore her bare legs crossed over one another in a way that makes the shirt ( _his_ shirt, he notes) she’s wearing ride up past her thighs. He pretends he doesn’t notice the flutter of her lashes when she blinks, and he’s attempting to forget that she isn’t wearing pants when he squeaks out, “Okay.”

“We can trade the blue jacket for a black tie, and the boots for dress shoes,” he says, his head dipping down to hover over his document again.

"You're going to give in that easily?" She asks him, unconvinced. Her stern veil begins to falter, and he can hear the disbelief in her voice. He smiles to the tabletop.

"Sure," he says as he signs his name across the bottom of a page. "Though if you were hoping you'd have to sway me, I can retract my statement until you felt you've earned it.”

"No need," she says. "You don't want a military wedding either, do you?"

Roy was imagining Riza setting herself on his lap, wrapping her long legs around him to bribe him into conceding. The fun of his fantasy was wiped away with her question, however. He sets his pen down and rubs the back of his head.

"So perceptive," he says, disappointment heavy in his voice. "I was hoping this would have been more..."

"You have a press briefing in two hours," she tells him. "I don't have time to straddle you on your chair." She peers up at him through her blonde bangs, wholly unamused. Her eyes tell him she's expecting an answer to her question.

"I want something more personal, sure," he says, giving in. "I think I'd look good in a black tie."

"Mm," Riza hummed. “Perhaps you would."

Roy didn’t try to fight his smug smile as it made a home on his face. "From ‘roommate' to 'Mr. Mustang' to ‘Major' to ‘Colonel' to ‘General' to ‘Führer,'” he trails off and beams at the way Riza's lips curl into a small smile against her will. He reaches across the table and places a hand over her paper to pull her attention toward him. When she looks up at him, his heart leaps. “I’m ready for this new title, all others be damned."

Roy knows he won her over when she leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his lips, small smile still intact. She tries to pull away almost as fast as she made contact with him, but Roy winds his fingers in her hair and holds her in place steadily as he parts her lips with his tongue. She groans against him disapprovingly, and he's sure she's kicking herself for kissing him. He chuckles against her mouth. "I won't be able to concentrate long enough to efficiently work through a press briefing unless you _do_ straddle me on my chair, you know."

"Führer Mustang," she huffs. "You have no self control. If only the people of this country knew what long legs could do to you."

"Sure I do," he says as he releases her and pulls back. " _You_ kissed _me_. Besides,” he stops and holds in his breath as she shuffles from her seat to his lap, folding her legs around him and the back of his chair. Her blonde hair cascades down her shoulders and her eyes are already glossed over from the promise of what he would be giving her. “I’m sure there isn’t a person in this country who would fault me for being drawn to _you_ , Ms. Hawkeye."

Riza winds her arms around his neck and fits her hips to his. “You hate press briefings,” she says. “I’m only trying to give you some incentive to work through another one. I’ve always done this job, albeit a little differently in the past.” Roy would have laughed if she hadn’t moved almost imperceptibly, rocking into him, causing his breath to catch in his chest. He runs his hands up her thighs, her torso, under his shirt and over her breasts. He pauses only once to apply pressure between her legs and admire the way her head falls back, and her lips part. "Have you had enough?" She asks him, her face already flushed.

Roy leans into her and places a kiss on her collar bone. "Not quite," he responds. Next to him and through the windows, the people of Central are beginning to stir. He can hear them on the streets, their muffled voices drifting up a few stories into his large dining hall. Still, he holds his soon-to-be-wife in his arms and plants kisses along her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. He smiles against her skin, he smiles into this woman who smells faintly of oil but mostly of every goal he’s ever set for himself. He grips her face to pull her down to him, suddenly aching for another kiss. She obliges for a moment but then slowly pushes back.

"We don't have the time to-" She starts, but her words are replaced with soft gasps as Roy's fingers wander into her lacy panties. She sits up instinctively to give him room, her nails clawing at his shoulders. "I'm...supposed to...just straddle you," she huffs at him as he starts working her in slow circles. His heartbeat picks up every time she pants at him and he relishes the fact that he’s able to melt her down with gentle motions instead of harsh snaps of flame.

"Mm," he affirms. He places his free hand on her ass and grips her there tightly. She all but yelps at the contact and her hips buck into him, against him. He grinds his teeth at the feeling, let's out an airy groan. He can’t help but be riled up by the caress. He thinks to himself that it’s unfair that decades of feeling her on his body, of memorizing all her curves, hasn’t made fucking her any easier. His circles between her legs become increasingly frantic as he watches her squirm on him, her hips trying to keep up with his erratic movements.

In an effort to take back some control, Riza's hands retreat from his shoulders to curl under the hem of his shirt. She lifts it off her body in one swift swoop, and Roy's drawn immediately to her breasts. Before he can get to them, though, Riza pushes against his forehead and yanks at his shirt. She pulls it over his head sloppily, causing his hand to pull away from her, his hair to ruffle and look more unkept than it had when he had just wandered into his kitchen that morning. She smirks at him as she takes his wrist in her hand and plants a kiss to his palm.

“It’s okay to let me rule over _you_ sometimes,” Roy pouts at her, but his complaint is lost to the feeling of her fumbling with his boxers. She manages to shuffle them down on his thighs far enough to wrap her fingers around the length of him, and his breath hitches audibly in his throat. She begins to stroke him, and he's faltering with every glide of her palm against his skin. It takes more self control than he thought he had to keep from crashing with her onto the floor and fucking her until she forgot her own name.

“Riza,” he warns. She knows the tone, knows that when he’s hissing at her from behind clenched teeth it means he’s teetering. Still, her head dives down and she kisses his jaw, nips at his ear. She’s playing with him, he knows. He runs his hands over her back, feels her scar and hurriedly moves to cradling her hips instead. Even now, even in the midst of what he’s sharing with her, he’s not capable of brushing the skin he mangled. His head falls back as he refocuses on what he’s feeling, but Riza cups his face in her hands and pulls him close.

“Führer,” she breathes into his ear. It’s a distraction, it’s a taunt. The sound of his rank coming off her tongue in this setting elicits a moan from him that’s almost primal. She’s reminding him that the scars are why they’re here, and she’s reminding him that he’s Führer, and every step he’s taken from beginning to end has led him to this moment. She tips forward on him, dragging herself over his length.

“Okay,” Roy growls. “Okay, Riza.” He pulls her up just enough to take control, and she’s helpful as he guides himself into her. She sits her full weight on him, expecting to move in a way she sees fit, but Roy is quick to lift her up and set her back flush against his tabletop. He grabs her hands in his, mutters, “A black tie would come in handy right about now,” and pulls out of her only to move as slowly as he can manage back in.

“Ah,” Riza whimpers at him. He feels her body tense and her fingers lace into his above her head. He wants to do more, he wants to move more, but he's so sure she’ll regain her authority if he lets her hands loose. “Roy.”

He touches his forehead to hers and groans. His name is just as maddening to hear as his rank.

His pace picks up, he frees his fingers from hers and grasps her wrists in one hand while his other hand travels down to where he knows she's aching for him. It doesn’t take much from him to push her over the edge, and only a minute or two pass before she’s panting out his name and he’s slowed himself down enough to help her through her orgasm.

“Now I have a press briefing in an hour-and-a-half,” he teases her. She’s still catching her breath, though, and he doesn’t have time to stop himself before he fixates on the scar that’s nestled into the side of her neck. He concentrates on it as it pulses with her heartbeat. He reaches up to trace it with his fingers, and he feels her warmth, her life, beating into him through his fingertips.

“Führer,” she reminds him again. They’re safe, he’s Führer, she’ll be his wife.

“Dammit,” he says. He anchors her hips down with his hands and he drives himself into her faster than he had before. She wraps her legs around him and tilts her pelvis up to take him in fully and he’s grateful for the gesture as he slips over the edge. He slumps forward on her as he rides his own wave of pleasure. Her free hands had migrated from the table to his biceps, where they had dug red lines into his soft skin.

“Sorry,” Riza says, a little winded. She’s eyeing his arms and trying to rub the irritation out of them.

Roy responds with a whispered, “I love you.”

“So, a black tie?” She asks him, her fingers combing through his hair. “You can wear it once to the wedding, and then do whatever with it afterward.”

“Absolutely,” he says, tilting his chin up to look at her.

“I have a few other uses for such a thing in mind.”

“Oh,” she laughs at him. “I’m sure you do."


End file.
